


pretty boy

by deathsmi



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Crushes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Love Confessions, M/M, if i dont write a soft confession au once a month i will cease to exist <3, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathsmi/pseuds/deathsmi
Summary: - frank hates the fact that he's even fucking attracted to that, finds it so cute. he wants to wipe the charcoal off gerard's face, wants to see gerard blush while he does it.OR:gerard is frank's best friend, and frank is head over heels in love with him
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 5
Kudos: 68





	pretty boy

**Author's Note:**

> just want to clarify that i do NOT ship irl frerard, i am nd and i got really really attached to the dynamic and they got rid of my 4 year long writers block so pls keep that in mind !! i genuinely love and respect both frank and gerard and their personal lives!! also, title is from pretty boy by the nbhd 
> 
> TW for panic attacks, stay safe angels!!

frank is _fucked_.  
he has that thought as he watches his best friend, sat there with his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration while he sketches away at some disturbingly realistic and bloody drawing, straight out of a horror film. 

nothing about this should be appealing, he thinks. but here he is, eyes glued to gerard's face, and he is completely utterly fucked. gone for this guy. he ponders over how embarrassing this crush is, because gerard is the dorkiest fucking person he knows, with his crooked smile and the way he awkwardly fumbles over his words to people he's not close to ninety-nine percent of the time. i mean, really, frank has never seen anybody struggle so much to have a conversation, but for whatever reason he finds it so damn endearing. 

so he sits, and he stares, raking his eyes over gerard's face, wondering how he's so fucking deep in thought over this drawing, wondering what exactly he is thinking, wondering what his eyelashes would feel like against frank's cheek. frank gave up a long time ago on trying to make sense of these thoughts, let alone pretend they don't exist. the first time it happened, he went through the seven stages of grief in about half a day before resigning himself to the fact that he was simply screwed and had no hope. so he let himself steal glances (ok, several minute long stares) at his best friend when he wasn't looking, and well, what gerard didn't know couldn't hurt him. 

the problem was that _mikey_ knew, and so did ray, and basically everybody with eyes, except for gerard. 

not that mikey knowing was necessarily a problem, minus the fact that he'd basically tortured frank for a week straight after he figured it out. god, frank was ready to strangle that fucker as he taunted him like a damn middle schooler, but mikey managed to run just out of frank's reach, curse his short stature.

so the problem lied within gerard. gerard and his impossibly hard to read self, always lost in thought about god knows what, and frank wished so badly that he could read minds sometimes, just to figure out if he was absolutely hopeless or not. he didn't even know if gerard liked guys, for fucks sake, let alone if he liked _frank_ , and frank doubted he'd have any reason to see him as more than just a friend. but even if he did, by some miracle, frank had no way in hell of knowing, which meant he'd probably die miserable and alone. ok, he wasn't that dramatic, but really, he was ready to scream trying to figure out where gerard's head was at. even watching him draw this piece, he had no idea what the hell was going through his mind or why he looked so frustrated even though the drawing looked so badass. 

gerard groans, flopping face first into his pillow, and frank lets out a breathy chuckle, because seriously? gerard was so dramatic. and frank makes sure he knows this fact about himself, to which he earns a swift middle finger. 

'why are you so annoyed, anyway?' frank questions, asking for a tiny peek inside gerard's tangled mind. although, if he was honest, he knew it wouldn't earn him much. gerard wasn't great at putting his thoughts into words, unless it came to songwriting, which seriously, how could someone so bad at communicating be so good at writing lyrics? this guy was one big fucking enigma of a person, and frank wanted to figure him out. he'd been trying to for years.

'it doesn't look right.' gerard states plainly, matter of factly, muffled by the pillow he has yet to sit up off of.

frank stares at the drawing in question, then tilts his head a little. it couldn't look better really. frank figures gerard must be visually challenged or something. 'what d'ya mean?' 

'it just doesn't look right. like how i pictured it.' gerard manages to heave himself back up, sitting cross legged, biting his cheek. he stares and contemplates the sketch some more, squinting his eyes. frank guesses he probably can't figure out what's off about it himself, and maybe that's because the drawing is fucking perfect as is, and frank has never understood why gerard is so insecure about his art because he's never met someone so creatively gifted in his life. and that's huge, because ray can fucking _murder_ a guitar solo like nobodys business, and mikey's the same on bass. frank briefly considered them starting a band once, but then he realized they'd probably all strangle each other before they had the chance to come up with a name, let alone make a real record. 

gerard groans again, bringing his charcoal stained hands to his face and conveniently rubbing said charcoal into his cheekbones and temples, a light grey shadow smeared on his face messily. frank hates the fact that he's even fucking attracted to that, finds it so cute. he wants to wipe the charcoal off gerard's face, wants to see gerard blush while he does it. 

'maybe you should come back to it later, man,' frank suggests, shrugging. he seriously doesn't get what's wrong with the drawing the way it is, but he'd rather not watch gerard give himself a stress induced heart attack, the perfectionist that he is. then again, frank isn't an artist by any means, unless you count the doodles of stick people that he does when he can't be bothered to pay attention in pre-calc, because seriously, his brain has no room for that shit. but he knows that he isn't an artist, and it's never been his thing so he doesn't have any qualms about it. frank, however, still feels qualified (stick figures and all) enough to say that gerard's art is insanely fucking good.

gerard continues to nibble on the skin on the inside of his mouth, then nods, hesitates once, and closes his sketchbook. 'you're right, if i don't stop staring at this drawing my brain is going to fucking explode,' he says, and frank doesn't doubt it, still staring at the smudges of charcoal dusted on his cheekbones. frank briefly thinks about how it looks like a really weird highlighter, a poor color choice on gerard's end. his mind starts to drift to images of gerard wearing real makeup, eyeliner smudged around the eyes, maybe a touch of red eyeshadow - and god, why is he thinking about gerard in makeup? frank blinks hard and drags his gaze away from gerard's face, staring at a random spot on his bed, counting each fiber of the blanket. 

11, 12, 13... gerard gets up to put his sketchbook away, tucks it into his book bag along with a few of his comic books that he liked to read. 

24, 25- and the loud shuffling of gerard perusing through frank's movie collection made him lose focus. he really was shit at math. he was also really shit at trying not to stare at gerard, literally all the fucking time. he felt like a stalker.

gerard loved everything related to creativity - art, music, movies, television, books, everything. frank didn't have much room in his brain for anything other than guitar and his never-ending gay panic, or so it seemed, except gerard always seemed to be showing him something new and exciting, and god he would watch the world's shittiest romcom if gerard asked him too. 

but gerard doesn't watch romcoms, although frank has a little feeling in his gut that he has a secret love for them somewhere deep down. instead, he watches superhero movies and horror films and the dorkiest movies known to man, but frank really likes them too so it's never been an issue.

gerard plucks one of the DVD cases out of the row finally, a carefully curated choice, though without a doubt a movie they've already watched upwards of a hundred times. he proudly shows the case to frank, who is unsurprised to find out it is star wars, which he bought and kept specially for when gerard came over, then completes the reveal with a single jazz hand, making frank snort. frank thinks about how idiotic that gesture was, as if he doesn't know he'll be replaying it later in his mind and smiling like a dumbass about it.

they eventually rearrange everything and get the movie playing on frank's laptop, a bowl of buttered popcorn wedged between their legs where they sit on the bed. this was their routine, to sit in comfortable silence while gerard either drew or read a comic, and frank tried and failed to pretend he was doing something productive, too. then they always ended up here, sat in bed, so close yet so far apart, watching one of the same five movies. and yet, as boring and monotonous as it would sound if it were anyone else, it was gerard, and just being in the same vicinity as him made frank feel completely content, made his heart feel all full and fluttery. gerard was really his best friend, because as much as he loved mikey and ray, he never felt completely comfortable sitting in silence with them, always felt the need to try to squeeze in some small talk about the weather or guitars.

he finds himself staring at that damn charcoal smudge again within the first five minutes of the movie, and he really wants to kick himself in the shins right now with how bad he wanted to reach over and wipe it off gerard's face. he didn't even know how to tell him the mark was there, couldn't form a coherent sentence, and now _he_ was the one struggling to communicate and it really frustrated him how easily gerard could do that without even realizing it. without doing anything to provoke the reaction in the first place, other than oh so conveniently wiping fucking charcoal all over his face like an actual toddler doing a finger painting.

he doesn't really expect gerard to look over and meet his gaze and it catches him off guard a little bit, staring at the computer screen as though he had been the whole time. real fucking slick, iero. truly. he could see gerard smile a little out of the corner of his vision, and that makes him relax if just a little, though he wonders why the little fucker decides to be so smug all of a sudden. there's a short silence, and then gerard excuses himself to go pee, and frank gives him the courtesy of pausing the movie that they've watched at least twenty times, because gerard asked nicely. frank had no idea why it was important, he would be shocked if gerard didn't know the whole movie line for line by now. but that was one thing about gerard. his unwavering passion for the things he loved, which frank found himself absorbed in a lot. he'd never seen anyone care so much about anything as gerard did. he thinks gerard's passion for things contributed to his creativity a lot. how he took in information and appreciated it and analyzed it until he knew it like the back of his hand. sometimes they'd spend the night at one another's house and gerard would tell frank stories to lull him to sleep, stories conjured up in his head, mostly tragic, dark stories but somehow they comforted frank. he thinks it might be because of who the storyteller is, and the familiarity of him, his voice, his presence.

he sits and waits, takes a bite of the popcorn, feels the butter coat a film on the roof of his mouth. looking to the side and at his bedside table, his eyes catch on a frame filled with some old pictures, memories he made with his friends when they were all (possibly dumber than they are now) middle schoolers, with awkward poses and pulling ugly faces for fun. he doesn't like to think about it much. middle school was, well, middle school, specifically he remembers going to the dance with a girl he had no interest in and having her step all over his toes the whole time. when she'd kissed him, he wondered why it felt like nothing, nothing but exactly what it was, chapped lips pressed stiffly together, a little saliva somewhere in the mix, and frank felt sick to his stomach. he had to excuse himself, something about how he needed some fresh air, but he just dragged mikey out of the school and bolted.

it's not that frank didn't feel bad for ditching her, but he was dealing with a major crisis, specifically his complete and utter lack of feelings for this girl that he, by all means, should've been attracted to. mikey told him it was just not the right girl, and so he waited. he tried through freshman and sophomore year to make it work with not one but two other girls, spent countless nights tossing and turning and wishing he could feel a single ounce of attraction to them, getting so frustrated he wanted to cry. and of course, at times, he did cry. he'd never admit it to anyone.

then he took an 'am i gay?' quiz online, in an incognito browser of course, and everything began to fit into place. 

_how fucking cliché._

so he's looking at gerard in the picture now, all awkward and a bit more filled out than he is now, and he doesn't really know when gerard came into this equation. when he stopped knowing how to act like a normal person around him.

maybe it was never a sudden thing, just an inevitable and natural decline into frank's current insanity. 

although the realization did hit him like a tidal wave when it came along. he guesses he should've seen it coming, gerard who was a constant in his life and made him feel genuinely, deeply cared about, who listened attentively when he talked and showed him a whole new world through comics and movies and music. who comforted him when nobody else gave a shit, who he comforted right back when he needed him, holding him close and guiding him back to the ground. 

it really should've made more sense to him. he isn't sure why it's such a far-out idea, really. maybe because it's his best friend, and this isn't supposed to happen, not in real life at least. maybe because gerard is gerard, he's never been outgoing, smooth, or even particularly charming. but frank finds himself engulfed in him nearly all the time and it doesn't make sense, but it makes complete sense all at the same time.

frank wishes feelings weren't so complicated.

he shuts his eyes, leans his head back so it rests against the headboard of his bed, and sighs. he doesn't want to think about it anymore. he wishes he could stop.

gerard walks in then, soft footsteps against plush carpet, and climbs back onto the bed as frank allows himself to open his eyes again so gerard doesn't worry. the popcorn bowl tries to spill but frank steadies it until gerard sits, shuffling around until he is comfortable again.

'you fucker, you didn't tell me there was charcoal all over my face!' gerard exclaimed, taking a piece of said popcorn between his fingers and launching it directly at frank. it bounces off of the center of his forehead and lands god knows where. he just smiles at gerard and sticks his tongue out, unsure whether he's glad for the distraction to be gone, or sad he couldn't be the one to clean it off. he thinks he needs to stop thinking about the damn charcoal.

they get back into their rhythm of watching star wars, gerard talking over most of it, wildly gesticulating the whole time. frank thinks it's sweet that he still has this much enthusiasm over a movie he's seen this many times. he remembers watching it with him when they were in middle school even, years ago when they were shorter and still had some shreds of innocence left. man, high school sucks. 

but when frank thinks about it, gerard has changed a lot. a lot more than anyone he knows. he thinks about how he's very glad gee didn't peak in middle school, because that would be really depressing. he thinks this surge in hotness came when gerard discovered hair dye, also known as his new best friend for life. at first, he dyed his hair from its natural brown to a jet black color, a perfect opportunity for him to get picked on for being 'the emo kid', but it looked great on him nonetheless. frank was beginning to think gerard could even look good bald, but maybe he was biased. 

frank wasn't prepared when gerard dyed his hair fire truck fucking red.

mainly because gerard didn't warn _anybody_ in advance, not even his own brother, and when he showed up at school, frank nearly crumbled to dust right then and there, standing in the hallway with ray. he actually felt his knees go weak for a minute and considered grabbing ray to keep him steady before realizing, no frank, this is not a normal reaction to this situation, get your shit together! 

gerard didn't seem to notice, his cheesy ass shades on, a grin plastered from ear to ear. 

frank looks at his hair now, a bit of a faded version of that red from before. he thinks about the amount of times he's wanted to just touch it, run his hands through it, feel it just one time. it always looked so fluffy. frank thinks that the boost in confidence the red hair gave gerard was good for him, because his hair was more often than not clean now. it made frank feel warm inside, knowing that gerard was taking better care of himself, that he felt like he had a reason to. he wishes he could tell him how beautiful he is without it being weird.

he thinks then about all the times that gerard has made him feel that way - warm, gooey. beautiful.

when gerard called him in the middle of the night last winter and convinced him to sneak out at two in the fucking morning to go to god knows where with him. it was insane, frank knew that, but he was head over heels in love with his best friend and it came through at the most inconvenient times.

it was worth it in hindsight, even his mom lecturing him for an hour straight in the end, because spending that time with gerard made him so happy he didn't even _care._ gerard drove them to the beach, the beach in the middle of fucking winter, and frank yapped his ear off about how cold it was, so of course gerard had to make it even worse and convince him to go in the freezing cold water. and we're talking titanic levels - frank was sure he was going to get hypothermia if he didn't have it already, the water soaking his jeans and making it a thousand times worse when he got back out into the open air. he wanted to murder gerard right then and there, but he looked over and gerard was smiling at him, a big toothy grin like a kid that just got an ice cream sundae, and frank felt warm again. he didn't even remember at that point why he was irritated, especially not when gerard dropped him off at home again and gave him a hug that lingered on his skin the rest of the night (and maybe even into the next day, too.)

then he thinks about when he was having a panic attack and gerard comforted him all the way through it. he doesn't even remember why he was so upset anymore, it just escalated from one point to the next and suddenly frank couldn't breathe and he felt like his throat was constricting, choking him. it was complete luck that gerard had been there when he was, like some sort of guardian angel. a gentle knock in the pattern that they kept between them, then a soft 'frankie?' as the door creaked open. frank felt static from head to toe, so far gone, hot tears streaming down his face and leaving his cheeks flushed. he wasn't sure how it progressed to this, just knew he couldn't control it, not then and certainly not now. as gerard's arms wrapped around him, safe and secure, he continued to cry, a never-ending stream pouring from his eyes. 

it's weird, how a person can feel so safe. frank zeroed in on gerard's voice, a soothing reminder, 'it's ok frankie, i'm here, it's okay, just try to breathe.' 

slowly, slowly, he felt the static begin to fade, he felt himself come back down, and he heard gerard's voice clearer as the tears faded out into deep sniffles. gerard didn't let go of him, wouldn't, kept reminding him that he was there and wasn't leaving. frank's own arms wrapped around gerard's middle, and he buried his head in his neck, trying not to get snot all over gee's shirt, not that he would blame him for it or be mad. 

it felt nice, secure, to be held safe in gerard's arms like that. it was grounding in a way that made frank never ever want to let go of him, just stay in this room forever with him. and then, a painful tight feeling in his chest knowing he didn't have that option. 

he thinks about gerard casually asking him to be his muse, because gerard thought he'd be _perfect_ for this particular piece, and the word pretty was in there somewhere. somewhere, masked behind their normal banter, something that frank wouldn't have caught onto if he wasn't in fucking love with the person who said it, and if it wasn't said _about him_ by that person. but he did hear it, as fast as gerard managed to brush past it, to make it not seem like a big deal as frank was melting from the inside out, about to become a pile of goo right there.

he thinks about how he replayed the word over and over and over (and over) in his head, all day, all night, all week. gerard fucking way thought he was pretty? in what universe? it was hard to focus on anything else anymore, anything that wasn't 'you're' and 'pretty' in the same sentence, in gerard's voice, echoing around in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull. he couldn't pay attention to a single class, propping his head up with his hand and staring aimlessly at the wall. 

he walked a little taller after that, if possible. he smiled a little brighter.

and then he realized that he loved gerard, not in a 'i love you, bro,' way, but in a 'i'm in fucking love with you,' way that crawled through his chest and made it's home caged right under his ribs and stayed there, curled up like a damn loyal dog. he was in love with gerard, in actual real love, and it made him kind of dizzy. scratch that. it made him really fucking dizzy. 

he stares again at gerard, looks at his faded red hair dye, looks at his pretty eyelashes, looks at the tiny, faded marks left behind from the charcoal he couldn't manage to get off completely. and he really feels like he might fucking explode.

he just wants gerard to look at him, meet his eyes. _i promise i won't look away, just look at me._

gerard is in the middle of one of his tangents about this damn movie, this movie he has watched and re-watched more times than frank's brain can probably count to when he's around, and frank is about to actually go insane. 

'gee,' frank interrupts, sudden, something he didn't even expect himself.

gerard looks a little shocked, one finger still raised in the air like he was in the middle of talking with his hands, as he does, but he meets frank's eyes and everything stops. whatever he was talking about, whatever he was saying, is frozen in time, along with everything else, the tension around them so palpable frank thinks he could just reach out and touch it and it might explode, like a watermelon with a ton of rubber bands around it.

frank has a sudden urge to get rid of everything. every-fucking-thing. he shoves the nearly empty popcorn bowl onto his bedside table, closes his laptop, sits up and looks directly at gerard and thinks, this is it. gerard is searching for answers in his eyes and he feels it, knows he needs to come up with something now. he didn't really plan this out. 

he thinks he could put it into words, but his stupid body acts on its own accord and he's leaning forward, closer to gerard and suddenly their faces are only inches apart.

he knows he can't do this unless he does it right, so he asks, he pauses and waits for gerard to tell him, to give him his answer. do you want this too?

he hears a shaky exhale and then the distance is all gone, and holy fuck, this isn't like middle school. this isn't like frank's ex girlfriends, if you can even call them that. this is real, the way it explodes behind his eyes, the way his heart is beating out of his chest and he's afraid gerard can hear it. 

it's not anything more than a sweet, nervous kiss, but it sends shockwaves through frank's chest. like a god damn earthquake. they're both shaking a little, their breaths trembling and mixing together when they pull apart. it's not either of their first kiss, but it may as well be. frank doesn't even remember anyone before this, doesn't remember other people exist right now, nobody except for him and gerard.

he opens his eyes, meets gerard's gaze again, falters, catches it one more time. he's shaking so hard he thinks he might pass out. his lips feel really tingly in the best way possible just from that one kiss, and he kind of wants more of them.

'are you okay?' gerard whispers, and laughs a little as if to say _it's okay, don't be nervous_ , which calms frank's nerves a little bit. he's holding onto gerard's shoulder for dear life, still right in his face, and he knows he could kiss him again if he wanted to. he feels warm all over.

he doesn't even know how to respond, trying to collect his thoughts and form a coherent sentence because anything that comes out of his mouth right now is going to be humiliating otherwise.

'gee,' is what he manages to say. gerard waits, searches his eyes again, as if frank is the one here with all the answers.

he swallows, deep and drawn out, trying so hard to make his damn vocal chords work, and finally, he says, 'i love you.'

impossibly, gerard pulls him back in, draws their lips back together, and there goes another fucking earthquake right in the center of frank's chest. he lifts his hands up, cards his fingers through gerard's now muted red hair (he really hopes he dyes over it again) and, aside from saturday night dinners with his mom, frank has never felt so at home, never in his entire life.

when the kiss breaks, their foreheads resting together, a quiet confession rings through frank's ears, 'i love you, too.' 

and everything makes sense now.  
them, that drawing that didn't feel quite complete to gerard, the charcoal smudge on his cheek, the little shared smiles, hell, even their secret knock.

it was always gerard.


End file.
